


The Mind Has Mountains

by Kate_Lear



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When first encountering Sherlock’s ‘black moods’ then John was entirely unprepared, army training be damned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mind Has Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to ginbitch and innie_darling for looking over this for me, and to innie for the title. It's from [this sad, lovely poem](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173663) by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
> 
> (Contains references to bipolar disorder, please don't read if this will upset you.)

When first encountering Sherlock’s ‘black moods’ then John was entirely unprepared, army training be damned. Sherlock had warned him about them and John had imagined heavy silences, perhaps with Sherlock keeping mostly to his room. ‘Not speaking for days,’ – as Sherlock had put it – would actually have been a vast improvement, since what Sherlock did in reality was mope around the flat in his dressing gown, snap at Mrs. Hudson, and find fault with everything John did, from how he made the tea to how he tied his shoes.

Even after they started sleeping together, when Sherlock was half out of his mind with ennui then his obnoxiousness seemed to know no bounds.

‘Oh, what _now?_ ’ Sherlock had growled, after the first time he’d verbally lashed out at John and John had looked shocked. ‘Have I _disappointed_ you? Were you expecting that I’d magically turn into a different person just because you’ve had your cock up my arse?’

‘Bloody hell, Sherlock, thanks for making me sound like a twat,’ John had muttered, stung and unwilling to admit that perhaps, deep down, he might have been secretly hoping for something like that. Not that Sherlock’s personality would change, since John loved his mad brilliance and quicksilver mind, but was it too much to hope for a bit more consideration now that they had demonstrated quite clearly that they were more than just friends?

And Sherlock made it sound so _crude_ when he spat the words out, sharp and stinging as drops of vitriol. As though John, just the previous night, hadn’t slowly peeled off Sherlock’s clothes and lavished kisses on all the secret dips and hollows of his body, until Sherlock had pulled John into a proper kiss and wrapped his legs around John’s hips. As though Sherlock hadn’t clung to John afterwards, three-quarters of the way asleep yet still clutching him while John struggled to free himself enough to lean over and turn off the lamp.

It had been slow going, but John began to see that there were differences in Sherlock’s bad moods. There were days when Sherlock’s sulks involved a lot of flouncing around the flat in nothing more than a loose-flapping dressing gown and low-slung pyjama bottoms, held up only by the luscious curve of Sherlock’s bum and the twin crests of his hipbones, and showing off the soft black hair that feathered down from his navel to spread and thicken at his groin.

On those days Sherlock had a combative glint in his eye, and he spent his time pestering John – stealing his tea, and using his laptop, and trying to engage him in pointless verbal sparring. Eventually John worked out that, while Sherlock had no problems with pouncing on him at the end of a case for victory sex, he was completely incapable of asking for it just because he was feeling fractious and out of sorts, and wanted the intimacy of being tangled together in rumpled sheets.

In such cases, John learned that the best approach was to manhandle Sherlock into bed – and the first time he tried it, he had bitten his lip to avoid laughing when he saw how wide-eyed and turned on Sherlock got from John bossing him around – and fuck his bad temper out of him. In the afterglow Sherlock was always lazy and pliant, high on oxytocin and all but purring as John ran a proprietary hand along the burning-hot skin of his back.

Sex on those occasions was a bit like wrestling, with Sherlock determined not to surrender easily, and John generally had to pin him down and cover his shoulders and chest with kisses that turned to bites before melting back to kisses, suckling at his nipples until they were tight against his tongue. Eventually, Sherlock would lie back in the mess of sheets and blankets, haughty as a spoiled young pasha waiting to be pleasured, and watch John narrowly as he stretched his arms up and back, until his fingers just brushed the headboard. Slowly, he would draw up his long, lean legs to wind them around John’s waist, twining his ankles together and resting them heavily in the small of John’s back, and his eyes would slide shut with pleasure as John pushed lube up inside him and followed it with his cock.

On those days John fucked Sherlock as slowly as he could bear, reaching up to clasp Sherlock’s hands where they were flexing against empty air, tangling their fingers and kissing their palms together as he pressed close, and then closer still. Close enough to kiss Sherlock until his impatient huffs and grumbles died away and his moans started, until Sherlock’s hands were tugging at John’s tight grip as Sherlock begged into John’s mouth for a hand free to touch himself, since John’s stomach flexing against his cock was only enough to tease.

John always tried to hold out for as long as possible and then, when Sherlock’s palms were sweat-slick against John’s own and Sherlock’s bony knees threatened to dig bruises into John’s ribs, he would relent and brace himself up on one arm to reach a hand down between them to where Sherlock needed it so badly.

Sherlock was gorgeous mid-orgasm, his face crumpled halfway between agony and ecstasy like a dying martyr or a falling angel, and even the pulses of wet heat over John’s fingers couldn’t quite convince him that the man wasn’t some sort of remote, unearthly creature. John watched greedily as Sherlock shuddered and cried out through his pleasure, thinking despairingly, _I love you. Christ, I love you so much,_ even as Sherlock groaned luxuriantly and rubbed his calves along John’s sides until he gasped and came.

Afterwards Sherlock was always limp and tactile, content to doze in John’s arms – it was rare that Sherlock didn’t need to catch up on sleep – or lie with his head on John’s chest. He would murmur drowsily about prospective experiments, long fingers tracing abstract patterns on John’s skin, and John would hug him close and stroke his hair and savour the peaceful interlude for as long as it lasted, all the more precious because it was so rare.

\----------

Even though Sherlock hasn’t yet learned how to just _ask_ for John to take him to bed, and John has to put up with several hours of childish behaviour, he infinitely prefers that sort of bad mood to the alternative. Because the alternative is _this_.

John descends the stairs from his bedroom one morning to find Sherlock stretched out on the couch, facing the back and picking at a loose thread he’s found. He doesn’t respond to John’s greeting or offer of breakfast, and John sighs inwardly as he walks into the kitchen. Last night Sherlock had still been busy with an experiment when John had announced that he was going up to bed, not really expecting that his unspoken invitation would be accepted, and this morning the place is a _mess_. Equipment is scattered everywhere and a truly awful smell lingers in the air, despite the open window in the living room.

John makes breakfast around the chaos with the ease of experience, and then retreats to his armchair with his tea and toast. He balances his plate on the arm and warms his hands around the steaming mug – the weather at this time of year isn’t yet mild enough to comfortably sit with the windows open – as he asks, ‘What did you do in there? It’s even worse than usual.’

Under the folds of blue dressing gown, Sherlock’s shoulder blades twitch irritably. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

John eats some toast before saying dryly, ‘Right, yeah, I’m sure I wouldn’t. I’m only a doctor, after all.’

‘A mediocre one.’ Sherlock still doesn’t turn over to face him, but his feet kick restlessly at a cushion and his voice is disdainful. ‘And if you stay at the clinic then your brain will deteriorate to the extent that in a few months’ time you’ll find that you may as well not have bothered with your degree. Any idiot armed with a bottle of penicillin could replace you.’

John has enough confidence in his own skills to let this pass without comment, and instead he stares at Sherlock’s riotous curls and tense spine, trying to read his thoughts off the back of his skull. He knows that Sherlock resents the clinic because it sometimes takes John away when he could be helping Sherlock on cases – although John has no intention of ever abandoning Sherlock when things could be truly dangerous – but Sherlock isn’t usually so venomous.

The reason becomes clear when Sherlock turns over, in a sluggish slither of limbs and dressing gown that’s lacking his usual grace. He looks like death – his eyes are heavy and bloodshot, the shadows beneath them dark enough to be bruises, and his pale skin is pasty and dull.

John frowns critically. ‘It would have done you more good to sleep last night, rather than make a horrific mess in our kitchen.’

‘It was important,’ Sherlock rasps sullenly, tugging at the sleeve of his pyjama top and looking past John to the bookcase. ‘And stop fussing, I’m fine.’

 _No, you’re not,_ John thinks, but when he gently suggests, ‘Why don’t you go to bed–’ Sherlock cuts him off by picking up the remote control and switching on the television. The first thing that comes on is some sort of day-time chat show and Sherlock leaves it on rather than channel-hopping. The volume of the shouting participants and baying audience is loud enough to impede conversation and John takes the hint, finishing his toast and picking up his book in silence.

He has a shift at the clinic in the afternoon and, in the absence of a case, he’s been looking forward to a quiet morning of reading and updating his blog. But it’s not long before Sherlock turns his attention to John’s reading material and starts laying into it. It’s a crime novel that been at the top of the bestseller lists for weeks and that John has just succeeded in finding at the local library. He’s enjoying it, and even flatters himself that he’s worked out who the killer is, but Sherlock derides the book, the author, and John’s taste in literature – raising his voice instead of turning the television down – until John’s jaw is clenched and his temper is fraying.

‘I suppose this at least explains the over-exaggerated writing style of your _blog_ –’ Sherlock begins, and John’s last thread of patience snaps.

‘God, you’re such a bloody _child!_ ’ John explodes, flinging his book down as he jumps out of his chair.

‘At least I’m not an _idiot_ ,’ Sherlock snarls, and rolls over to face the back of the sofa again, drawing his knees up to his chest with a savage jerk.

John storms across the room to grab his coat, shrug it on, and leave, a deep baritone shout of, ‘Fine! Piss off, then!’ following him out of the door.

At the foot of the stairs, John pauses. He usually leaves Sherlock to his own company when he’s like this: he vacates the flat for several hours and when he returns then Sherlock is in his bedroom asleep or ensconced in his usual chair, still sulky and petulant but at least fit for company.

This time John thinks of going to the local café, to sit with the paper and get coffee from the young waitress who knows him and Sherlock, and who’s only just got over her nervousness at speaking to Sherlock. The front door is only a few metres away, and so John doesn’t quite know what makes him turn around and tiptoe back up the stairs.

He pauses at the door of their flat, looking at the man on their sofa as though he’s never seen him before, and it strikes him suddenly how very uncomfortable Sherlock looks. The television is still blaring noisily to itself in the corner, the window still letting in great draughts of fresh air, and Sherlock is huddled in a ball at one end of the sofa, his dressing gown pulled tight around his narrow frame and only his pale, bloodless feet poking out. Sherlock looks so very alone, and for the first time John wonders whether anyone’s ever stayed with him when he’s like this or whether he’s always been left to deal with it by himself. He suspects he knows the answer.

The television is loud enough that Sherlock hasn’t heard John come back up the stairs, which lets John walk silently across the room to close the window firmly and have the small satisfaction of seeing Sherlock startle upright at the bang.

He looks over at John, shocked. ‘What are you doing?’

John takes off his coat, retrieves yesterday’s newspaper from where Sherlock discarded it – disgusted at the lack of crime – and settles himself in his armchair.

‘I’m not leaving.’ John shakes the paper back into its original creases, and snaps it open pointedly, ignoring Sherlock’s accusing stare in favour of scanning down the articles. ‘It’s my flat too.’

Sherlock just huffs scornfully, sprawling along the sofa like a large cat, and changes the TV channel. It’s another talk show, and John thinks, _Christ, don’t people have anything better to do than go on telly and shout at each other?_ but ignores it determinedly. He’s lived in a war zone; he can certainly put up with a bit of noise, and he flips through the paper.

It takes a while for the lack of activity from the sofa to register with him, but when it does then he looks over, almost holding his breath in anticipation and the hope that Sherlock has gone to sleep.

He hasn’t.

Instead he’s watching John, his face open and unguarded for a moment until it settles back into a scowl and he looks away. John doesn’t shift his gaze, but stares at Sherlock’s profile and has to concentrate on breathing because for that one short moment Sherlock had looked puzzled and a bit lost and, frankly, _miserable_. So deeply unhappy that something spears through John’s chest and he murmurs, ‘I wish there was something I could do for you.’

 _Something I could_ prescribe _for you,_ is what he means, but doesn’t say. Sherlock’s bursts of gleeful energy and fits of lethargy could be a textbook example of bipolar disorder, save that in Sherlock’s case the root of the problem isn’t his hormone levels but the presence or absence of something to engage his mind. And there’s no remedy for that save the one that Sherlock rid himself of long before he met John, and that John wants to ensure he never tries again.

‘Well there’s nothing,’ Sherlock responds tersely. ‘Look at you – sitting all the way over there with that useless newspaper, as though you hadn’t a care in the world.’

John almost protests that that’s untrue, and that seeing Sherlock fretful and at such a low ebb makes him wish for something to happen. But he’s never been good at talking about his feelings, as his therapist can attest. He considers himself more a man of action and so he flicks through the offending newspaper, looking for the crossword and wondering if the cryptic clues would be enough of a diversion for Sherlock.

But something about the tone of Sherlock’s voice when he said, ‘all the way over there,’ has set John’s mind working and on a hunch he gets up, flicks the paper into folds, and walks over to the sofa. Sherlock has flung an arm over his face, and so John can steal the TV control and turn the volume down to a reasonable level before he bats at the soles of Sherlock’s feet with the newspaper.

‘Move up.’

‘What?’ Sherlock jerks his arm up and glares at John, his eyes even redder and more tired when John is this close. His gaze flicks to the remote in John’s hand and then to the television. ‘I’m watching that.’

John snorts. ‘No you’re not. Now move up – it’s my flat too, and I want to sit on the sofa.’

Sherlock examines him narrowly, but John lifts his chin and doesn’t back down. Just when he begins to worry that he’s misread this – that Sherlock is going to stalk into his bedroom and slam the door – Sherlock sits up, freeing the space beneath his head and shoulders.

John blinks in surprise: he’d been expecting Sherlock to lift his feet so that he could plonk them in John’s lap. He’d even prepared himself for the possibility of a heel to the groin, since Sherlock has big feet and is none too careful with them, but he quickly recovers his equilibrium and sits down, feeling triumphant.

The next instant he realises that he relaxed too soon – as well as big feet, Sherlock also has a hard skull and it connects painfully high up on John’s thigh as Sherlock lies down with a long-suffering sigh. John grits his teeth as Sherlock squirms, turning this way and that as though trying to make himself comfortable on bare rock. Sherlock is all angles and points, and a sharp dig of his chin dangerously close to John’s groin has him muttering, ‘ _Careful,_ Sherlock,’ through his teeth.

The next time Sherlock grumbles and half-sits up, preparatory to flopping back down, John stuffs a cushion in his lap. Sherlock subsides, thwarted, but pokes the point of his shoulder into the side of John’s thigh as he wriggles. John’s patience is wearing thin, and he puts a hand in Sherlock’s hair – curls even wilder than usual after a sleepless night – and growls, ‘For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, _I’m not moving_.’

Even as he says it, John honestly isn’t sure he means it as the frustrated snarl of a beleaguered man trying to hold his own territory or the tender promise of a lover. Sherlock tenses, presumably against the possibility that it could be the latter, since soft words don’t work when Sherlock is like this, when what he _needs_ is action.

Sherlock starts to move – doubtless for some new and complicated manoeuvre – but stills when John’s fingers tighten reflexively in his hair. It’s only a warning: John could never bring himself to hurt Sherlock, and he knows that Sherlock is well aware of this. But, to his amazement, Sherlock’s muscles go lax and he lies quiescent, presumably thinking of what he can do next.

After a few moments, John dares to loosen his grip and slowly slides his fingers in a gentle caress, untangling knotted curls. Sherlock’s mind is the most amazing thing John’s ever seen, and the only time he comes even close to wishing that it was different is when Sherlock has nothing to do, and all that razor sharpness ends up slicing away at itself.

He rubs the nape of Sherlock’s neck when he reaches it – feeling the muscles wound tight with tension – and then brushes Sherlock’s hair off his forehead and starts to work his fingers through a different section, massaging Sherlock’s scalp as he goes. With his other hand he picks up the TV control and flicks through the channels, stopping when he finds an episode of _Poirot_ , which Sherlock has grudgingly acknowledged not to hate.

A few minutes later Sherlock gives a deep, hitching sigh, warm against John’s stomach through the thin cotton of his shirt, and John looks down to see that Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his face peaceful. John passes a thumb lightly over the half of an eyebrow that’s still visible and is relieved to see that, while plotting his next tactic, Sherlock has quietly and unexpectedly succumbed to sleep.

Even as John smiles to himself, he’s aware that he can’t stay here all day; he’ll have to leave for the clinic in a few hours. Sherlock, as he knows from past experience of having to leave him in bed and go to work, will resist and nuzzle closer when John tries to ease him off his lap. He’ll knot his hands in John’s shirtfront, face soft and blurry with sleep, and it will tug at John’s heartstrings to insist but insist he will, wishing all the while that someone would magically give him a fortune large enough to ensure that he never had to work again. He’ll push an extra cushion under Sherlock’s head, whisper promises of being back by the time Sherlock wakes, and kiss Sherlock’s forehead until his eyelids slide closed again.

But for now John turns the television down further, settling back against the cushions, and twitches their woollen blanket off the back of the sofa and over Sherlock’s lower half. His blog entry can wait for another day.

 

\--End--

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Comfort in a Whirlwind (the mind has mountains remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/376066) by [codswallop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop)
  * [Not untwist these last strands of man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/830426) by [Lindentreeisle (Captainblue)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captainblue/pseuds/Lindentreeisle)




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